Part 16 (2/2)

De Lara looks not at the latter couple; his eyes are all upon the former, staring with fixed intensity, full of jealous fire, in a glare such as only a tiger might give, on seeing Carmen Montijo turn towards her escorting cavalier, and bend over--he to her--till their heads are close together, and their lips seemingly in contact!

”_Carrai_! they're kissing!” he exclaims, in a tone of bitter exasperation.

He can bear it no longer. With a shout, half angry, half anguished, he digs the spur deep, and dashes forward.

The clattering of hoofs behind first warns Cadwallader, who is nearest to the noise. For, up to this time, the lovers, absorbed in sweet converse, dreamed not of danger.

The young Welshman, glancing back, sees what it is, at the same time hears De Lara's wild cry. Intuitively he understands that some outrage is intended--a repet.i.tion of the morning's work, with doubtless something more.

Quickly he draws his dirk: not now to be used in sport, for the mere p.r.i.c.king of a horse, but in serious earnest, to be buried in the body of a man--if need be. This resolve can be read in his att.i.tude, in his eyes, in his features. These no longer bent in the laugh of a reckless boy, but the rigid, resolute determination of a man. Badly as he sits his horse, it will not do now to dash against him. The collision may cost life--in all likelihood, that of the aggressor.

De Lara sweeps past the mids.h.i.+pman without saying a word; without even taking notice of him. His affair is with one further on.

But now Calderon is coming up, clearly with the intent to a.s.sault, as shown in his eyes.

Suddenly, however, their expression changes at sight of the bared blade.

Again that diabolical dirk! Despite a pull he has just taken from the flask, his courage fails him; and crestfallen, as a knight compelled to lower his plume, he too pa.s.ses Cadwallader, without a word--riding on after De Lara.

He overtakes the latter in time to be spectator of a scene; in its commencement somewhat similar to that enacted by himself, but with a very different termination.

Crozier, whose ear has also caught the sounds from behind, draws bridle, and looks back. He sees De Lara making towards him; and, at a glance, divines the intent. It is a _golpe de caballo_, or collision of horses--a common mode of a.s.sault among Spanish Californians.

Instead of turning aside to avoid it, he of Shrops.h.i.+re determines on a different course. He knows he is upon a strong horse, and feels confident he can stay there.

With this confidence he faces towards the advancing enemy, and after taking true bearing, spurs straight at him.

Breast to breast the horses meet, shoulder to shoulder the men. Not a word between these themselves, both too maddened to speak. Only a cry from Carmen Montijo, a shriek from Inez Alvarez, heard simultaneously with the shock.

When it is over, Don Francisco de Lara is seen rolling upon the road-- his horse kicking and sprawling in the dust beside him.

Regaining his feet, the gambler rushes to get hold of a pistol, whose b.u.t.t protrudes from his saddle-holster.

He is too late: Cadwallader has come up; and, dropping down out of his saddle, as if from a s.h.i.+p's shrouds, makes himself master of the weapon.

Disarmed, his glittering attire dust-bedaubed, De Lara stands in the middle of the road, irresolute, discomfited, conquered. He can do nothing now, save storm and threaten--interlarding his threats with curses--”_Carajos_!” spitefully p.r.o.nounced.

The ladies, at Crozier's request, have ridden on ahead, so that their ears are not offended.

After listening to the ebullition of his impotent spleen--Cadwallader all the while loudly laughing--Crozier, in serious tone, says:

”Don Francisco De Lara--for your card tells me that is your name--take a sailor's advice: go quietly to your quarters; stow yourself out of sight; and stay there till your temper cools down. We don't want you to walk. You shall have your horse, though not your shooting-iron. That I shall take care of myself, and may return it to you when next we meet.

The same advice to you, sir,” he adds, addressing Calderon, who stands near equally cowed and crestfallen.

After dictating these humiliating conditions--which, _nolens volens_, the defeated bravos are obliged to accept--the young officers leap back into their saddles, and trot off to rejoin the ladies.

Having overtaken these, they continue their homeward ride, with no fear of its being again interrupted by a ”_golpe de caballo_.”

<script>